


Lucky

by wintercreek



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a strange dream, that was all. Meg hadn't had a sense of existing in the dream, until the very end. She'd thought she was an invisible observer. And then Fraser had seemed to look right at her for a heart-stopping second, and he'd started to say her name—</p><p>Well. Of course he had. It was her dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primrose/gifts).



> Thanks to were_duck and Luzula for betaing!

_The first time she dreams of him, she writes it off as merely odd._

Meg wakes abruptly, breathing hard, wondering how she fell asleep in Prague only to dream of Benton Fraser, walking rolling hills somewhere. He'd been wearing those rather fitted jeans of his, thighs clearly outlined by his strides up a slope. Where was he?

She walks stocking-footed out to the kitchen, wincing at the noise of the pipes, and fills a glass of water. It's cold in the guest house. Still early spring here, as it had been on Fraser's hills, new greens appearing in air that still snapped at night.

Fraser's hills. Where could he be? More to the point, why was she dreaming about him? She hasn't seen Fraser for three years, since she joined CSIS and he set off on his dogsled adventure. Although, with Fraser, dogsledding seems more likely to be a fact of life than an adventure, per se. She takes her glass of water back to bed, sliding under the duvet gratefully despite the musty smell of the seldom-used bedding. The dim light of the city through the break in the drapes is enough to guide her glass onto the coaster, protecting the valuable, old nightstand.

It was a strange dream, that was all. Meg hadn't had a sense of existing in the dream, until the very end. She'd thought she was an invisible observer. And then Fraser had seemed to look right at her for a heart-stopping second, and he'd started to say her name—

Well. Of course he had. It was her dream.

  


 _The second time, she starts to wonder._

When her tent-mate shakes her awake and asks, "Are you all right, Thatcher? Only, you were groaning a bit," Meg feels herself go red and hot as she mumbles, "Fine, thank you, Perkins. Just a dream." They settle back into their sleeping bags, backs carefully to each other, and Meg waits for her heart rate to return to normal.

She'd been in the dream, this time, on a rocky beach with the wind whipping her coat and ruffling her short hair. Fraser had been staring out to sea. When she'd opened her mouth to speak, a gust blew salt spray into her mouth. It had been almost real, the taste so bitter and vital. He'd started to turn, seeming to have heard her swallow, somehow, above the noise of the wind, and she'd held her breath.

"Meg," he'd said. Just that. No fumbling, no tripping over her title, her last name, forms of her given name. And because it was a dream, she'd known how to address him.

She'd smiled. "Ben." And just like that they were moving toward each other, striding, nearly running, closing the distance faster. They'd collided, just a bit, and wrapped their arms around each other. Meg had turned her face away from him, the back of her head tucking alongside his jaw, trying to get control of herself. Then she'd remembered that it was a dream.

Turning back to him, leaning away just enough to see his face, she'd whispered, "I missed you."

"And I you," he'd murmured as they'd leaned back toward each other and into the kiss that seemed inevitable.

Upon reflection, that was probably what had prompted the groaning Perkins had found so troubling.

It's unfair that a dream kiss with a subordinate officer she last saw years ago is the most significant, and significantly arousing, activity she's had since she's-not-sure when, but there it is. One of the sacrifices of the job.

Maybe next time she'll be alone.

  


 _She dreams of him again and again._

They meet up in snowfields with dog teams, on boats, in Paris and Addis Abeba and Battambang, on mountainsides and in anonymous cultivated fields and once, memorably, on a tropical beach wearing only tiny bathing suits. It's in a dream version of Sapporo at the Snow Festival that they hold hands for the first time, looking over the sculptures and strolling slowly. They kiss in nearly every dream, but that's as far as it's gone. They talk, making up for lost time and lost intimacy.

Twice, in a particularly vivid dream of Ottawa and a hazy one of Quito, Meg thinks they're going to lose themselves in making out, like teenagers. It's Meg's irrational fear of being caught by a high-ranking official - CSIS or RCMP, it hardly matters - that stops her.

In Christchurch it occurs to Meg again that she's only dreaming. They can't get caught, can't suffer any consequences at all. It's almost frighteningly liberating. She takes advantage of the knowledge by dragging Ben into a guest cottage on the waterfront.

He looks startled. "Meg, won't the occupants–"

"It won't be a problem." She's oddly reluctant to point out to him that this is a dream, so she settles for saying, "Trust me."

"I do," he says, smiling and relaxing.

She grins and shoves him playfully toward the bed. The windows are open, and a sea breeze blows in through them. "Then come here and make love to me," she tells him, lying down beside him.

His hands are slow as he unbuttons her blouse and cups her breasts, thumbs moving just so. Her gasp makes him grin. Then she recovers her presence of mind and reaches for the fly of his jeans, and he moans in return. They don't speak for some time.

Meg hates waking up from that dream.

  


 _After five months, the dreams stop._

In the absence of her strange dreams, Meg develops insomnia. Waiting interminably for her next assignment, she paces the floor of her Boston hotel room, runs miles along the Charles at dusk, wakes bleary-eyed after a bare hour of sleep and listlessly surfs the internet. She thinks she's losing her mind.

The last dream, the one in Iowa City of all places, could have broken something, she thinks. They'd made love again — they did about half the time, now — and afterwards, curled together, she'd said, "I wish this were real."

Ben had given her a startled look, then recovered his composure and said, "I do as well."

After that they'd lain together in silence, and she'd woken feeling wistful. That was a week ago.

Today she's walking in the North End, ostensibly to see the Old North Church but also in search of cannoli. Being between assignments has always made her restless, and her sleepless nights have only worsened things. Thankfully, it's full spring in Boston and the air is perfect. Meg picks her way through the crowd clustered at the sidewalk tables and reaches for the bakery door. Her hand falls back to her side, though, when she sees Ben stepping out of a florist's shop up the block. She can only stand there, mouth open, until an elderly woman nudges her gently.

Ben's seen her too, and he's walking determinedly toward her. She steps forward to meet him. The apartment above them still has Christmas lights on its fire escape, she notes irrelevantly.

The silence between them is almost awkward before she finds her voice. "Hi," she says softly.

"Hello," he replies. "I was hoping to find you. I, ah, brought you these," he adds, holding out a small bouquet.

"White roses?" Meg bends her head to smell them. "They're lovely, thank you. How did–"

Ben cuts her off. "You told me they were your favorites." He looks at her challengingly.

"Yes, in Portland. Wait," she says, "we were never in Portland together, were we? Did you dream–"

"–that we spent hours in the rose gardens there? And days in Melbourne, and Manila, and Brno–"

"–and Christchurch," she says, and waits for his reaction.

Color rises on his cheeks, but he doesn't look away. "And Christchurch," he whispers, stepping closer and sliding his hands into her hair. He seems to be waiting for some sign from her, so she tilts her head and leans into him, falling into a kiss that feels practiced, for all they've seldom done it in person.

They part when a smattering of applause arises from the tables behind them. Meg isn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed, so she ignores the small crowd. "I have a rather luxurious hotel room, you know. Would you like to see it?"

"I would," Ben says seriously. "And perhaps after, ah, we renew our acquaintance, we could discuss some other things?"

Meg takes his hand and starts toward the nearest T stop. "The dreams? How is it possible that they were the same for both of us? Were they real?"

He shrugs. "Real enough. But I was thinking more of the future than the past, actually."

"Ben, how did you find me?" She looks up at him.

He leans in and confides, "I hacked your files."

She laughs. "I'm glad you're on my side," Meg says, as she slides her hand up to tuck in the crook of Ben's arm.

  


 _She doesn't dream that night._

Waking from a sound sleep, Meg arches her back into Ben's warm chest. He's curled around her in the night. She's loath to slip out of his grip, but she has a call to make.

It's half an hour before she comes back to bed and plants her cold feet against Ben's warm calves. He stirs and murmurs, "Meg?"

"I'm here," she says. "It's real. And–" she takes a deep breath, "I just got off the phone with my superiors at CSIS. I arranged a leave of absence. Apparently I have something like 65 vacation days." She smiles sheepishly. "I was hoping you might have some ideas about what to do with them."

Ben smiles as he sits up, then turns away from her to the bedside table. When he turns back, he has a tiny white rosebud in his hand. He tucks it behind her ear, catching it in the hair she's been growing long again. "I'd like to take you to an island somewhere warm, if that's all right," he says. "I seem to remember a bikini."

"And I seem to remember a Speedo," she answers, and laughs when he flushes. "Oh, I don't think we need to recreate things exactly. But I'd like to see all those places again with you."

"I would too." Ben reaches for pen and paper to start their list of places, and Meg thinks of the lonely years that have passed, the waiting and the hoping, and, at last, feels lucky.


End file.
